Snow White
by xMisty
Summary: I am coming to see you with a poisoned apple in hand. A retelling of Snow White of sorts. [possible Rebellion spoilers][One-shot]
1. Chapter 1

_There was once a vain queen who would ask her enchanted mirror who was most beautiful in the land every day, and every day it would answer that she was. However, she had not reckoned with the former queen's daughter, Snow White, who was growing more and more beautiful with each day passing day. When her beauty was finally eclipsed by the innocent girl's, the evil queen was filled was jealousy and hatred and tried to kill her using various ploys. These were all unsuccessful until she tricked her into eating a poisoned apple, upon which the girl fell into a deep sleep and was encased in a glass coffin in the middle of a forest, neither alive nor dead. Seven dwarves kept her company, and when they noticed a prince passing through, they hastened him to her in the hopes of her revival. At the first touch of his lips she woke to his smiling face and the jubilant dwarves, and they lived happily ever after._

.

Let us shut the picture-book and close our eyes and imagine, just for a short while, a slightly different re-telling of the same story.

.

There was once an ordinary girl who was queen of naught but an imaginary land, but whose loving heart could not be matched by any other. She loved a princess – her Snow White, if you will – who treated her as a very dear friend but had to be sent off to some distant country in fulfilment of her regal role; the girl had wept bitterly at their parting, knowing that the princess would be separated from the family and friends she was happiest among. The princess only smiled sadly and explained that it was something only she could do and a duty she was proud to carry out, and so went, leaving only a promise to return to her one day.

Years passed.

The girl kept on waiting, but with each passing day she lost hope of ever seeing the princess again. Time twisted her once-unshakeable belief, made her suspect her own pain – no longer was she sure that she was sad on her beloved's behalf and not on her own.

Every day, she would look in the mirror and see – a worthless person not selfless enough to be glad of her beloved's noble deed – a good-for-nothing who loved and wished to be loved in return, despite being worthy of neither. Every day, she would see only herself reflected in the glass. Yet her mind would daub a shadowy figure by her side, and she would wish every day, every hour, every waking moment that she would be able to see face-to-face the one whom she could now view only through a glass, darkly.

One day, the noise of some parade entered through her open windows and she woke up, ever a light sleeper. The streets below were a blaze of colour, the air filled with bits of paper and joyous shouts – the princess had come home. She looked magnificent, with hair flowing out long and silky behind her and clad in a beautiful white dress whose rustles bespoke of the universe as she walked.

The still-groggy girl rubbed her eyes and rushed down to meet her, and the princess instantly picked out her figure and changed direction, calling to her happily.

I'm sorry I was so slow in coming.

I'm so glad to see you again.

The girl embraced her and proffered an apple. Here, you must be hungry after your journey. Eat this, I had one earlier and it was quite tasty.

The princess smiled at her consideration and bit into it. The poison acted swiftly, and within a short while she slumped over, unconscious.

What have you done? The crowd cried as one. You devil! Why, the princess was so happy to see you! What have you done?

You're right, I'm a devil, she replied, mouth twisting into a smirk. Who else but a devil would do such a thing?

Anguished, the people surged forwards but were struck down with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, for she was a witch and had cast a spell on them. While they were thus incapacitated, she left the scene, bearing the princess gently in her arms.

.

Yes: she was a witch.

Perhaps she had been one since birth and had only discovered it recently, perhaps it was a physical manifestation of the brand of guilt she had pressed burning upon herself. Maybe it was not her fault at all. But she of course did not think so, and took it as a mark of what she thought her sin. She was always like that.

She walked on and on until she reached a forest far away from the paths of human wanderings. And on she walked, past the clumps of wormwood, past the vibrant red of pheasant's eye, past the delicate blue of Jacob's Ladder, past the pinkish-purple of Syrian Mallow, until she reached a clearing deep inside. There, in the shade of an aspen-tree, she lay her princess down in a glass coffin so her body would never be touched by Time's hand. She cast a spell upon herself as well, to ensure that she would never age or die by any will but her own, and, having brought fifteen dolls – though only fourteen could be counted – to watch over the two of them, eventually fell asleep.

In her dreams the princess could be with those she loved, and did not have to go away. In their dreams they could meet – the witch had created a stage for the happiness which possibility would not permit.

But the witch still knew that a dream was but a dream, and in her heart she did not wholly think she had done it for the princess' happiness. The line of selflessness and selfishness was too blurred, and she was plagued with doubt. How could she know that it was not because she feared that the princess loved her nation more than her? How could she know that it was not because she feared losing the princess again? How could she know that it was not because she feared that the princess did not love her any more than everyone else?

She couldn't, and so even in the midst of what should have been happiness, her heart was filled with despair and self-loathing. Even so, she decided to continue to protect that world's fragile balance, to keep the cocoon intact and beauty safe from the ravages of Fate, to keep the dreamer dreaming. The serpent coiled around her heart whispered that she was just afraid of how the princess would react when she woke up, but she closed her ears to it.

Actually, the princess had long since learnt that she was living in a dream, but had decided to stay asleep. For she did not want to be stirred from the witch's side, did not wish to wake to some prince's kiss.

Because what the girl hadn't realised was that the princess did indeed know how much she loved her, and that she loved her in return.

There they sleep till this very day, and there they will surely remain until the end of time.

.

**. . .**

.

Having finished reading the sheets of paper covered with neatly pencilled handwriting, the dark-haired girl folded them in half and put them aside with a slight frown. She had been working her way through the volume of Grimm's fairy-tales as of late, and had continued today as well, but somebody had slipped in their own writings in the section on Snow White. It definitely hadn't been there yesterday, and she was sure that recently she'd been only one reading the book, so she had a good idea of whose work it was. She turned the page, and found another folded sheet. As she pulled it out, three dried flowers fell onto the table: a small violet iris, the pale pink-and-white petals of what had undoubtedly been a Maiden's Blush rose, and the white bells of a Lily of the Valley. Ah, she _definitely_ knew who had done this, she thought, catching sight of the pair of golden eyes watching her from the other side of the library table. Embarrassed, the other girl turned away at first but mustered courage and returned the gaze, steady and even. Some unreadable expression flitted over the dark-haired girl's face, and she reached inside her purse and gave something to the other girl, who now stared down at a carefully preserved forget-me-not.

She felt something change in the air. The other girl looked up again, smiling and her eyes warm and sad, and reached out to grasp her hand. Then, and only then, did the dark-haired girl smile.

Finally, the other girl seemed to be saying.

I've been waiting for this moment.

* * *

**Author's note: **I'm actually working on a completely different fic at the moment, but while I was listening to Foreground Eclipse's "From Under Cover (Caught Up In A Love Song) the idea just came to me. Well, it's a very loose sort of interpretation, though... I just seized on the Snow White thing and ran with it. I'm sorry for the cheesiness! ;_; I just didn't want to end it with Homura disappearing before Madoka can give a response since it would seem tragic rather than happy... And this is ridiculous, I like HomuMado and my profile pic is HomuMado and I was intending to write HomuMado but it's MadoHomu! Well, not that it really matters. Thanks for reading!

Flower language meanings if anybody's interested:

- wormwood - absence; pheasant's eye - sorrowful remembrance; Jacob's ladder - come down to me; Syrian Mallow - consumed by love; aspen tree - lamentation

- iris - I have a message for you; Maiden's Blush - if you love me, you will find it out; Lily of the Valley - return of happiness; forget-me-not - forget me not (duh) and also true love.


	2. Bonus Track

**Author's note: **As noted in the chapter title, this is a bonus track; the main story is complete as a one-shot and will not be touched. This story has in fact no direct relation to the main story - it's just that I had this slightly Snow White-inspired dream involving Homura and Madoka quite a while back (before I came up with the idea for "Snow White" itself, actually) and I felt like writing it down.

**Warning: **set in a fantasy AU and involves an OC as a framing device.

* * *

The town bustles with people; barely a single person remains indoors as they swarm around outside, laughing and shouting in the midday sun. The weather is exceptionally fine today: the sky is a beautiful clear blue with nary a cloud in sight and the temperature is warm without being suffocating. A light confetti rain falls upon the streets, thrown by young girls beaming down at the crowds from their balustrades. The music of instruments fills the air, while the parades of dancers and meticulously-decorated floats form a symphony of colour and movement.

The festival is underway.

Not everybody is enjoying it, though – a single man is making his way to the gates with a cart loaded with carefully packed fireworks behind him. He needs to get it to the neighbouring town for its own display tomorrow night, and the trip's not that bad, but he thinks bitter thoughts anyway because he can't remember when he last joined the celebrations.

Outside the walls, the noise is much fainter, replaced by the open not-silence of nature. Birds tweet, leaves rustle, stones crunch underfoot – and that is all. Close enough for a tantalising note to alight on a pricked-up ear but just far enough to be unreachable, the festivities seem impossibly distant.

The cart trundles on, now pulled by an emaciated-looking donkey. The sunlight, pleasant when the shade of trees and houses was readily available, is not as forgiving out here. The man mops his forehead with a rag, but the scrap of fabric isn't enough to absorb the sweat, which has soaked through his clothes as well. He fans himself with his large straw hat which seems to be of absolutely no help in keeping out the heat, and promises himself that he'll get a cold bath after he delivers his wares. The path is bumpy, and he can feel the worn wheels rattling over the uneven ground. Of course he would. Boy is it uncomfortable.

He had come nearly to the end of the mountain pass, where the road was not as steep and treacherous, when he decided to stretch his legs a little. Stopping the donkey, he got out, the cramp making him totter a little after landing on the ground. Noticing the fringe of trees bordering the track – he rarely paid attention to his surroundings on the trip, preferring to fall asleep or wallow in his troubles – he wandered in, and soon arrived at a clearing.

The leaves were shot through by the afternoon rays and the grass turned golden by the Sun. Something at the foot of a tree in the centre of the field caught his eye, and upon nearing it coalesced into an inert female figure: a girl with pink tresses and in a plain white dress.

Now, as a boy, the man had liked listening to his grannie recount fairy-tales to him as he lay in bed, and a romantic streak persisted in him still. He had always fancied himself as a prince, though bearing no similarity at all to those dashing youths of his childhood fantasies, and so was quite happy to walk over and kiss the sleeping beauty.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when a patch of air next to the girl shimmered and an armoured leg emerged, quickly followed by a similarly-plated body. Alarmed, for he had never seen such a thing happen, and since the scarred metal spoke of battles enough to fill several lifetimes, the man leapt back several paces. It turned out to be a wise decision, because when the knight removed his helmet, her – yes: she was a woman, but he had not the time to be surprised – eyes, hard amethyst chips, bored into his and he experienced a terror whose existence he had never even imagined of before.

'Step away.'

He did not hear the voice so much as feel it; the forest, the sky, the animals, seemed to whisper the words in an echo.

Seeing the exit from this nightmare open up before him, the man gladly fled back to his cart and raced out of the mountains as fast as the donkey would go.

**.**

Now left alone, the knight turns back to the girl and carefully kneels beside her, her barely-restrained anger of a moment ago washed over with gentleness. A quiet smile, a hand stroking the girl's hair, arms cradling her body. The knight bends over and her lips touch the girl's and for a moment they are both obscured, hidden by the curtain of her black hair which flows down in front of them like the embrace of night.

'Please, wake up.'


End file.
